Oneiric
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: She was lyrical poetry... GSR


A/N: Thanks Marlou for the beta (I waited for you to post!), and to Lauren, who's crazy ass vote of confidence kept me writing this.

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Lyrical poetry, he painted over her body with his lips and tongue, bringing everything to the surface.

"I love you." I love, love, love you so much. So, so so, oh I love you so much. She thought it all but couldn't voice it completely, for her mouth was forming an 'O' and uttering a perfect keen of arousal. The things he did to her body were incredible, steady, so constant and yet not. Every touch, every kiss was new and enlightening.

He was her musician, she, the flute,the violin, the whatever, oh god. She was being played to ultimate perfection. This had to be some sort of lovely fate; this had to be something that she had waited her entire life for. It just had to be.

Dirty sunshine crossed the planes of her face, rendering her unable to hide any emotion that she felt. Oh, he saw it all. It was all illuminated by the light, light and dark and how the shadows mapped her face. She was flawed perfection in his gaze. How had he overlooked such a vision in the past?

He was certifiably insane, that must be it.

A merry-go-round she rotated inside his head, up and down and all around. She flowed within his veins, somehow transfused within and he felt so warm and welcome and home.

Somehow, somehow, dear god, in some way his head turned to similes, metaphors, literary devices to process the sounds she was making. It was all too much, she was a complex novel, something you would pick up and want to put down... and yet you didn't know how.

Cover to cover, he wanted to read her over and over and yet once more just to make sure he didn't miss anything. If this wasn't love, he wasn't sure how much more love could be. If this wasn't love... how much more bliss could he stand before he succumbed to oblivion?

He could learn from this experience, from what he was doing to her body; what she liked, what she didn't. But he didn't care. He just wanted to hear her, hear in her voice all the emotion he'd forced her to hide in the past. Just let it all out, that's what he spelled out with his tongue; just tell me, that's what he spoke with his kisses. He'd love her regardless.

It was far from perfect but it was something so real that Sara couldn't believe that she was living the moment. If sensory overload was a cause of death she would have passed out right then and there. There was a side of him, barely illuminated and it grew within her revealing everything.

Days, months and years she'd waited for him to come and he finally had; he'd come within her, in her arms, in her heart and still he was there.

He'd told her that he'd loved her, but he never proved it... until now. It stunned her how he could become so sensual, so unbidden by the real world.

Kisses, sporadically, all over her face. He needed to cry, but he didn't. It wasn't the time for that. "Never, never, ever leave me, Sara. Ever." Inside her, he moved, assuring her that he'd never leave her. Never ever? Never, ever, ever.

Grissom wasn't sure that he could accurately express to her the depth of his emotions through his body. He couldn't speak it. He couldn't write a thousand couplets on it; it was something so much more. If she ever left, if she ever left...

There was an empty beer bottle under her bed that he would never see. She herself wouldn't find it for months. It was gathering dust there beneath them as they made love on the mattress above it.

They should have been beneath the sheets but weren't. On top of the cotton they spoke with their moans, with their sighs, with the wet slide of passion they spoke. She could ask for nothing more and he, at the same time,), wondered if he had more to give.

Two A.M. in the mess that had become her bed, they tangled and twisted. Kissed, they kissed hundreds of times and it solidified the notion that Grissom had: he'd never get tired of her.

And she, well she wanted to have a diary, she wished to have a diary if only to write in those pages: "Finally, finally."

They plundered, gracelessly, lips and tongues and hands bumping and colliding randomly. But it was perfect. It didn't matter how it happened, it was perfect. His skin on hers, both of them sweaty and warm and happy, yes, perfect. They came, moments apart and wondered at the sensation of it all.

His hand smoothed down her sweaty hair, pressed against her skull. Everything she could have hoped for, "God, I love you."

And he didn't give her a chance to speak, just kissed her to sleep.


End file.
